"Was it the pregnancy?" I asked.
She eyed me curiously, then with venom when she recognized me. "You're that bimbo who ruined my spa treatment," she hissed.
"Was that what made you do it?" I asked, trying to sound understanding. "I mean, here you were, in love with your sister's husband. And now she was pregnant with Kent's baby. It was all so official, right? You can undo a marriage, but now they were starting a family together."
She cocked her head to one side, just as Kent wandered over. "Raven," he said. "What's going on?"
Caroline gave him a searching look. "Have you been talking to her?"
Sensing danger, Kent held up his hands. "She's just been asking some questions."
Fists clenched, she moved directly in front of Kent. "About me?"
"A little bit, but mostly about me," he said. "And some things I've had going on."
She began looking between Kent and me, back and forth, her eyes developing a half-crazed look. "You're defending her, you bastard!" She yelled, drawing the attention of some passersby, who wisely steered clear of our little huddle. "You cheated on me!"
It was becoming more and more clear to me. The jealousy, the crazed paranoia. The rage. I decided to play on it. It was grotesque, but it just might do the trick.
"Yes," I said, defiantly crossing my arms. "Kent and I are together now, just like Melanie and Kent were. Don't you get it? You're not going to be with Kent. Not now, not ever. He's mine."
Mike cringed, sensing the nuclear bomb I had just dropped.
Kent put a hand on Caroline's shoulder, but she spun away in disgust and turned back toward me. The hatred in her eyes was unmistakable.
"What?" I asked. "Are you going to kill me too? At least fight me face-to-face, though. It's cowardly to poison someone."
It was Dyson's turn to cringe. I had thrown the red meat in the water, hoping the shark would take the bait.
Caroline stiffened, unexpectedly, seeming as if she was trying to calm herself. "She died peacefully," she whispered. "No suffering. I made sure of that."
"And where did you get the heroin?" I asked.
She looked up and stared at me, seeming to look right through me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two burly men in white shirts begin circling us, directing patrons in the other direction. Caroline took a deep breath, and then she charged me.
She got one good punch into my abdomen before the security guards brought her down. I had ahold of her hair, but the guards backed me away, bumping my bruised hip up against the rail, which set off fireworks of pain coursing down my leg. Mike helped me up, and we watched the scene unfold. It brought no joy.
Caroline was flailing around, kicking and scratching at the guards, who were forced to hog-tie her with her hands behind her back. Another guard arrived and held her legs. No one had returned to their seats at the poker tables, their eyes glued on the reality show taking place right in front of them. Kent's face had gone ghostly white as the reality set in.
I watched the guards escort Caroline through a discreet exit door and then pulled out my phone. Someone in Detective Weakland's room answered and then put him on the line. He told me he'd arrange for LVPD to come and get Caroline. They'd need to talk to me, of course, but I was almost home free.
Kent was shaking his head. "I knew she was blinkered, you know, gaga, as you would say. She was a little protective, too. A jealous one. But…" He trailed off.
"It must be the accent," Mike muttered.
I cringed. "Seriously, Kent. You can be very, uh, charming. That can be dangerous."
He sighed. "But still."
I was beginning to get angry. "You're acting as if you're the victim here. You're the one who was sleeping with your wife's own sister. You led her on, and then you created this giant ruse to try to trick her into thinking that her sister was really married to Tommy over here."
"Thomas," he sniffed.
I ignored him. "How long were you going to carry on like that?"
Kent was silent, reduced to staring at the gaudy casino carpet.
"Let's get out of here," I said, grabbing Mike's arm.
On our way out, I turned back. Kent was returning to his seat at the poker table.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Twilight reigned. The grounds outside the Bellagio danced with elongated shadows cast by palm trees, and the luminescent balloon at Paris bathed in blue light the swarm of tourists who had gathered in hushed anticipation of the next water fountain show. Mike was in a reflective mood.
"I have to say, that was impressive," he conceded.
"Chalk it up to women's intuition, or something like that," I said, uncomfortable with the praise.
"Still," he said, probing.
I relented. "It all clicked when I figured out who the guy trying to kill me was. When I remembered he was one of the guards at the Weston's mansion, and when Detective Weakland showed up at my doorstep, I realized everything traced back to LA. And I figured when Melanie got pregnant, the natural thing would be to tell her sister, a girl who was in love with the same man."
"A jealous, paranoid girl," Mike added.
"Exactly. Once I confirmed that she already knew this Dyson guy wasn't her sister's real husband, it meant she knew it was Kent. And the only way to keep Kent for herself was to eliminate her own sister."
Mike offered me his arm, which I took in silence. We were wandering up the Strip, in the opposite direction from my apartment, neither of us quite ready to call it a day. I was expecting the LVPD to call my cell phone any minute, but for now I was going to enjoy the cool night air and the water show.
From the number of tourists pointing cell phone cameras at the water, I surmised that it was just about 7:30. On cue, the music came on—Tony Bennett—and then the fountains roared to life, illuminated by hundreds of unseen underwater lamps. Mike unhooked his arm and leaned into the railing.
The inground speakers were booming out the sound right in front of us, a sound you could feel pressing into your skin, making it seem as if you were a part of the water show, especially when the loud whooshes of the fountains exploded in tandem with Tony Bennett's high notes. But the booming sound wasn't the only thing I was feeling. At the loudest part of the song, I felt the unmistakable coldness of metal poking into my back, followed closely by a hand grasping the front of my neck. I squirmed and tried to yell, but I couldn't get any sound out of my throat. The music roared, the fountains danced, and yet all I could feel was a powerful force trying to subdue me. And it was winning.
No one had noticed, everyone transfixed by the commanding water show and numbed by the raucous climax of the chorus, but I managed to whirl partway and kick Mike gently in the leg. It was a lighter kick than I'd wanted, but it was enough to rouse him, and, when he recognized what was happening, he sprang to life. His first move was to go after my attacker's face, and I could feel the indecision in the struggle behind me as the man considered whether to let me go and defend himself or whether to shoot me first. He didn't have time to make that decision, though, because Mike was all over him. At first it increased the pressure on my neck, making me gasp for air, but within moments I could feel the weakness in his hands, the giving up, and I seized the opportunity to pry those giant paws off of me.
It was enough to allow me a deep breath, and it gave me space, space I used for leverage to plant an elbow in his ribs. Mike had already dislodged the gun, and I pounced on it and shoved it in my handbag. The two men were struggling now, and, with the fountain show finished, a crowd began forming, making a hesitant circle of space around them. The light wasn't very good, but I could tell the man had broken his nose, probably from trying to crash his truck into my car earlier that morning.
Mike's expression was all business, and he let the other guy wear himself out in a few fruitless efforts to take him down. The crowd, most of them half-drunk, began rooting for Mike, who was a much more charismatic warrior than the dark-haired thug and a much better hand-to-hand fighter than I would have expected. I was
considering whipping out the guy's gun and turning it on him, but with so many people around that could have been too dangerous. And it didn't seem as if Mike needed the help.
After another minute of jostling, Mike positioned himself near the railing, almost daring the other guy to charge him. He obliged. Mike was slow to respond, though, and he took a hit to the jaw after whiffing in his own effort. But the momentum of the charge had carried the man into Mike, and Mike recovered enough to grab him by the waist and heft him partway into the air. Mike then began an awkward spin and finally hurled the guy over the railing and into the man-made lake, giving rise to a splash worthy of the fountain show itself. Some in the crowd applauded, but most were sporting the same kind of did-I-just-see-that looks on their faces that I'm sure I had.
Mike looked embarrassed more than anything else, and he joined a few more people peering over the railing to watch the man struggle to get out of the lake. It looked to be only a few feet deep, but apparently it was slippery enough on the bottom that the guy was making an even bigger fool of himself trying to get out. I answered my buzzing phone. Before the officer could get out a sentence, I interrupted and told him to send a squad to the Strip to pick up the guy in the lake. He told me not to move, and so I waited there with Mike and a dozen other people who didn't quite know what to make of the scene.
Five minutes later, three squad cars arrived, their lights flashing and sirens blaring. A plainclothes detective bolted out of the passenger seat of the first car.
He made a beeline for me. "You McShane?" There was nothing pleasant about his demeanor.
"Yeah. Did Detective Weakland get hold of you?" I asked.
He snorted. "No, but he got ahold of my boss's boss. We really need to bring you downtown."
I nodded, resigned to an evening of bad police coffee and uncomfortable office chairs. I looked over at the lake, where three officers were struggling to lift my nemesis out of the water. He wasn't going quietly into the night.
When they finally had him on dry land, he was spitting out water and writhing around under the weight of three officers.
The detective sighed. "Sometimes these guys need a little more persuasion to play nicely." He motioned to one of the other officers, who brought over a Taser.
"Hold his leg still," the detective said.
"Can I do it?" I asked.
The detective rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"
Mike elbowed me. He was cracking up.
One of the officers held the guy's leg still, and the detective went in and held the Taser against his leg for a full second, producing a scream and a distinct burning aroma in the air.
"Never tased a wet guy before," the detective mused, holding his nose.
After a second application of the Taser, the cops were finally able to cuff the guy behind his back. They led him into the back of the third police car, its lights still flashing. He was still soaking wet, his thick black hair drenched and matted against his face. He looked out the window at me, muttering something inaudible. I blew him a kiss.
The detective showed me into the first car, where I sat in the back seat and waited while the detective filled out some paperwork at the scene. Mike was still standing near the railing, arms folded across his chest, talking to a couple of drunk twenty-something girls who had watched the whole thing play out. Good for him, I thought. But then my womanly instincts kicked in, and I found myself feeling a tiny bit jealous of the attention he was getting. The light from the casinos was reflecting off his muscular forearms, and he towered above the girls, a model of sculpted manhood. As I saw him through the girls' eyes, I realized I had been taking him for granted. Huh.
The cops had me in and out in less than three hours, which I considered a minor victory. They had managed to get Detective Weakland on the speakerphone from his hospital bed, and he was able to fill in the blanks, especially from the LAPD end of things. It turned out that the entire Weston money and political machine had been turned not just on me but on the Department, a fact that explained why they'd stopped returning my calls and reassigned Weakland. Weakland's theory was that the whole family knew Caroline had poisoned Melanie, and they weren't willing to lose both of their daughters, so they fought to protect Caroline despite her awful crime. And that meant sending their best goon to try to take me out. And Weakland, too.
They were convinced they had a rock-solid case. Caroline had all but confessed to me in front of Mike and Dyson, and she broke down under police questioning before her family's lawyer got wind of what was going on. Her confession was airtight. The guy who attacked me, whose name I never got, was going to be rung up for attempted murder. After an exhaustive search, Officer Listecki had turned up security camera footage in the business park showing his truck chasing me down and ramming into me. There was no way he would beat that charge.
As for Kent, they were able to connect him with Jojia's identity theft ring, which proved to be bigger than anyone could have imagined. But he was small potatoes, and they were planning to use him as a witness against her in her upcoming trial. He would probably do a little time, which might scare him straight and end his habit of preying upon women who were taken in by his charms. All in all, it was a good result.
* * *
Too much police department coffee had me stirring in bed, my mind whirring with the entire day's events. I hadn't gotten to sleep until after three o'clock, and now it was only a few minutes past five. After tossing around for twenty minutes, I gave up on the idea of more sleep, attractive though it was. I found my robe and cinched it up tight, finding my way to my balcony to watch the sun rise. Slumped in my favorite lounge chair, I nodded off for a half hour or so, and when I awoke I could see the tiny rays of pink light creeping across the desert sky, welcoming the Monday morning, as though nothing unusual had happened the day before, as though today would be just another day. Knowing otherwise, I smiled to myself.
Eggs, cheese, toast, coffee. These were the main thoughts coursing through my sleep-deprived mind as I gazed out at the Strip and the beautiful sky behind. Screw the sunrise, I need food, I thought, turning away from the view. I muddled my way back through my dark apartment and found what I needed in the fridge. Then I began to whip up an omelet. I had just poured the eggs into the frying pan when I was startled by a strong arm wrapping itself around my waist.
I shuddered at first, still edgy, but then I let the arm pull me close and enjoyed the warmth of the body behind me and the stubble on the face that had begun pressing into my neck. His lips teased my ear, and his left hand began exploring the front of my body.
"Why don't you come back to bed first," he whispered in my ear.
By way of answering him, I turned around and let my robe drop to the floor, pressing my naked self against him. He responded immediately, grabbing me by the thighs and lifting me up. With my arms tight around his neck and shoulders, he carried me back to the bedroom and pressed me onto the bed.
This time, there was no hesitation, no consideration for what I wanted or needed, and that was just fine by me, and in a strange way it was exactly what I did need—to be needed, an object of pure desire and animalistic impulse, without all the complications and niceties and the awkwardness that went with it. The next ten minutes were a blur, a wonderful blur, as I held on and moved against him and with him, and somehow the fire had arisen in me, much quicker than usual, and together we gasped for air and pressed against each other in a way neither of us knew was possible.
We were silent for another minute as we caught our breaths, our bodies still mingled together. And then he sniffed at the air.
"You smell something burning?" he whispered.
"Oh, crap!"
* * * * *
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* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephanie Caffrey grew up in
Wisconsin and has lived in Chicago, Washington, D.C., and London. Although she has traveled the world, her heart belongs to the thumping, degenerate pulse of a city that is Las Vegas. Having stayed at (or passed out in) nearly every casino-hotel on the Strip, she is recognized as an expert on all-things-Vegas, including where to find the best poker rooms, the most decadent foie gras-topped hamburger, and the most effective cure for a tequila-induced hangover. For a brief period in her early twenties, she may or may not have been a topless dancer. A constitutional lawyer by day, she is married with a young son, who will not be allowed to visit Las Vegas until he's forty.
* * * * *
BOOKS BY STEPHANIE CAFFREY
Raven McShane Mysteries:
Diva Las Vegas
Vegas Stripped
Royal Flush
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SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this Raven McShane Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
MOTION FOR MALICE
by
KELLY REY
CHAPTER ONE
Some people are as subtle as spoiled milk and about as pleasant. Dorcas Beeber was one of those people. One and a quarter, if you counted her killer Bossi-Poo, Chandler. Both of them showed up at my desk at the law firm formerly known as Parker, Dennis & Heath before the untimely expiration of Heath, early on an overcast Thursday morning in January. Dorcas's husband Weaver trailed behind like a wisp of smoke. The office policy was no animals allowed, but Dorcas made her own rules, and Chandler had no respect for authority. He yapped nonstop from his Gucci carrier, sounding madder by the minute, probably because the other Bossi-Poos made fun of his little velvet sweater on the way over. Weaver stood off to the side, a trim, tidy, bright little man in his plaid cardigan and khakis, his hair short and neat, his nails clipped and clean.
Royal Flush Page 22